


Of Fountains and Silk

by modernKhione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauxbatons, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-02 22:02:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernKhione/pseuds/modernKhione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Alexia de Rileaux: found alone on the doorstep of a social worker as an infant, she has been passed along from family to family every year during her short eleven years of life. She has never belonged anywhere, never known where her last name came from, and never known the names of her real parents.</p><p>At the end of her last year in primary school, however, Alexia receives a letter that will change everything she's known about herself--forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. La lettre d'admission / The acceptance letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you've noticed that this fic is almost entirely populated by OCs (I say almost, but I make no promises). I wanted to explore the wider magical world more fully, so I'm starting with a fic centered on a girl attending Beauxbatons. I tried to research France as well as I could (not being French myself) so I'll be putting some links at the end of each chapter for people who are interested (and also if I get anything wrong, please correct me!)
> 
> If any cameos happen, I promise they will make canonical sense. If anyone wants translations of things, I'll also provide those (I'm not a very good translator, though). I'm really experimenting with the two languages so...we'll see how much French makes it in here.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

> _L’Académie de Magie de Beauxbâtons_
> 
> le 6 juillet 1991
> 
> Mlle Alexia de Rileaux:
> 
> Nous avons le plaisir de vous annoncer que vous avez été acceptée à l'Académie de Magie Beauxbâtons. Vous trouverez ci-joint une liste des fournitures dont vous aurez besoin pour cette année à venir. À cause de votre situation familiale, nous enverrons dans deux semaines un membre du personnel pour répondre à toutes questions que vous auriez.
> 
> Veuillez croire, Mademoiselle, en l'expression de nos sentiments distingués.
> 
>  
> 
> Eusèbe Da Silva  
>  _Directeur adjoint_

Alexia stared at the letter in consternation. It had to have been an elaborate prank. A school of magic? She couldn't believe that someone had put so much effort into a joke. The letter, so heavy in her hands, told of wealth; the school letterhead, of age and prestige; and the handwriting style, with its odd slant and flourishing capital letters, spoke of patience and tradition. It couldn't be true.

But Alexia thought back to the shifty way Kazimir had acted earlier this week, when she had gone over to his family's apartment in the suburbs. He had clammed up entirely when she’d started talking about going to school in September. She decided then that she would ignore the letter. After all, it said that they would be sending someone in a few weeks to respond to all her questions, didn’t it?

Besides, Alexia didn't want to trouble the Durands; they were still kind to her, even almost a year later.

***

“Mirela and I are going to the same middle school,” Felix said over the phone. Alexia had no idea why he had switched topics so abruptly; they’d been talking about going to the cinema tomorrow afternoon with his sister and Kazimir.

“I knew that already,” replied Alexia shortly. “Why are you telling me this?”

“It’s different from the one you’re going to.”

“Are they actually sending you to a private school then?”

“Kinda.” Alexia could imagine the face Felix was pulling. “We’re not even Catholic.”

Alexia rolled her eyes, though Felix couldn’t see her. “And I told you it doesn’t really matter. Isn’t it mostly the same, anyway?”

“Whatever. But you’re gonna be all alone, Alexia. Just. . . be careful, alright?”

Alexia briefly entertained telling Felix about the letter that had come in the mail for her, but she dismissed the idea. Instead, she said, “Hey, do you know where Kazimir is going? He got really weird when I started talking about it; I don’t think he’s going to the school near him for some reason.”

“Really?” Felix’s voice rose an octave. “I didn’t know that. Wonder what he’s not saying.”

Alexia’s heart sank. So Kazimir really was keeping something from her, but Felix apparently knew. Those two really didn’t have any secrets between each other, did they?

“Yeah, it’s weird. Anyway, I have, um, summer homework from my new school. Should probably do it if we’re gonna be out watching movies all day. Later!”

***

It was a bright, warm day in Paris. Alexia and her friends had already watched three movies in a row, and were in the midst of hunting down some food. Mirela kept shooting down every café they passed by, saying she wanted something “special”.

“I can’t believe we’re going to middle school! We’re going to be so busy,” said Mirela.

Kazimir groaned. “Please, I don’t want to talk about school anymore. Can’t we talk about Robin Hood? Or Terminator, don’t you guys wanna talk about what you think will happen in the next one?”

“Do you really think there’s gonna be another one?” asked Alexia. She stuck her hands in her pockets, fidgeting with her keys. The Durands had trusted her with the keys to the house since they wouldn’t be back until late. Even Simon, their own son, hadn’t been given the keys to the house, and he was two years older than she was.

“What’s wrong, Kaz?” asked Alexia. “ _Is_ something wrong?” He still hadn’t told her what was going on with him.

“No, I just don’t wanna talk about how busy we'll all be, you know? I’m going to miss hanging out like this.”

Mirela shrugged. “It’s not like we won’t see each other anymore, is it? We’ll just have a little less time, that’s all.”

“Kaz is just upset he’s going to a boarding school.”

Alexia stopped dead in her tracks, staring at Felix. “What?” Kazimir winced.

“Uh, yeah. Wasn’t sure how to tell you guys.” Then he mumbled something, looking away.

“ _You’re going to RUSSIA?_ ” shrieked Mirela. Everyone in their vicinity stopped what they were doing (mostly eating) and glared at them. Felix tried to tug Mirela away, waving and smiling awkwardly all the while.

“Uh, yeah. Ha.” Kazimir gave the most unconvincing laugh Alexia had ever heard in her short eleven years of life. She stayed rooted to the spot until Felix grabbed her arm too and dragged her away. They started walking again.

“Why?” Alexia had finally found her voice.

“ _Russia?_ ” asked Mirela. She watched Kazimir’s every movement, bug-eyed.

“My parents said it was family tradition or something, I dunno. Look, can we just drop it, okay? I’m not leaving ‘til the end of August anyway.”

“But you’ll be back for breaks and stuff, right?” asked Alexia.

Kazimir nodded, a small smile spreading. “Yeah, of course. They might start at slightly different times though, but I’ll be back every chance I get, I promise.”

Mirela suddenly laughed. “I’m holding you to that!” Then she got a glint in her eye that Alexia had learnt to fear long ago. She linked her arm with Felix’s. “Say, Felix, weren’t you surprised by all this?”

Alexia caught on and linked arms with Felix as well, preventing escape. “Yeah, you seemed oddly. . . calm about all this, don’t you think?”

“Well, uh, I mean, I guess--that is. . .” He shot Kazimir a panicked look. Kaz shook his head and help up both his hands in surrender. Felix was on his own. Mirela started cackling.

“You are in so much trouble, little brother!”

“Only by two min--”

Alexia didn’t give him time to finish his sentence, having sent Felix into a laughing fit, tickling him. Justice was served.

***

Monsieur and Madame Durand were a perfectly ordinary couple who lived in a very nice, standard-sized house for the 15th Arrondissement of Paris. They were both corporate lawyers at the peak of their career, and had a twelve-year-old son named Simon.

M. and Mme Durand were mostly satisfied with their life; however, after she had turned fifty, one idea wouldn’t stop niggling in the back of Mme Durand’s mind. Her son was a wonderful son in all respects: athletic, charming, intelligent, and kind; but she wanted to have a daughter, and desperately.

Unfortunately for Mme Durand, that was not to be. So after a few months of cajoling her husband and son into the idea, she finally decided on foster care with the goal of adoption in mind. She and her husband were too old now to take care of a baby and, at any rate, Simon would probably not appreciate dealing with one after a lifetime of being the only child. It was then that Mme Durand approached her closest friend and confidante, Francine Martel, a social worker.

Francine had been in the system too, after a string of tragedies in which her grandparents died in a plane crash and her parents, a car crash. And both women knew what sort of oversights could happen to a girl in the foster system, such as it was. For years, Mme Durand had listened to stories of the terrible childhood that her closest friend in the world had endured. So Francine this time listened to Mme Durand’s idea, and promised to help.

And that was how Alexia de Rileaux came to the Durand household.

***

It was a rainy Saturday morning, a week before Alexia and the Durands would be going on holiday to the beaches of Brittany. Alexia had never been on holiday with her other foster families before, not ones she had enjoyed, really, and it couldn’t have counted as a holiday if one were miserable the entire time, could it?

But this time was different; for certain, there would be no Sebastien Laroux to make her eat the sand, as he had done when she was six at the Laroux household (he woke up the next day covered in blisters that bled the stuff). There would be no Céline Vionnet ripping up Alexia’s new summer dress at dinner because it was prettier than hers (somehow, her backpack had been replaced with a live monkey when they went to the coat check a few hours later). And Simon Durand was not about to snip off half her hair in her sleep while they were camping in the Vosges, as Martin Duchamp had done just two years ago (he got to wake up bald, though Alexia’s hair had grown back by mid-afternoon the next day).

No, this holiday was going to be different. Simon Durand was quite nice to her, if perhaps a bit indifferent at times; Alexia didn’t blame him. She wasn’t really an adorable younger sister, but that was alright. Simon hadn’t done anything to her, and nothing. . . strange. . . had happened to him.

The only thing that bothered her was that she would have to cut her time with Kazimir short. He was going off to Russia after all; the four of them had been fast friends since Alexia was five and had gone to primary school together for a year. Somehow, her oddness never bothered her three best friends, and they had never mentioned her oddness. They didn’t really seem to notice it, even, and for that Alexia had always been grateful.

That Saturday morning had begun quietly enough. The rain meant both Alexia and Simon were stuck inside, which gave Alexia ample time to read the newest book she had bought with her monthly allowance (the Durands very kindly gave her some of the stipend they got for taking her in). It was about the seven different types of mtDNA found in all Europeans.

Simon was getting a crash-course in cooking by M. Durand, whose latest obsession involved a specific type of cooking using only dark, leafy greens and copious amounts of spices. Behind his back, Mme Durand rolled her eyes at Alexia and handed her a plate of grapes. Alexia giggled and set the toast she had been munching on on the plate, holding her new book in the other hand. They went to the dining room together, where Alexia carefully set her book down, then the plate, and sat down to eat brunch. The Durands let her take her books everywhere provided she didn’t read while eating, and that she always remembered to take them with her. Alexia thought it was pretty fair.

Then the doorbell rang.

Alexia froze, toast halfway to her mouth. Mme Durand met her eyes. “Who would be visiting at this hour?” asked Mme Durand.

Alexia took a bite of toast and shrugged. “I’unno.”

Mme Durand pursed her lips, and Alexia swallowed quickly, wincing. Oh, right. No talking around a mouthful. She tried to smile, embarrassed.

Mme Durand sighed. “I’ll go get the door. Alexia, dear, you have some crumbs here,” she tapped her right cheek and left.

Alexia brushed the crumbs away and put down her toast. From the entryway, she heard slightly raised voices. She tiptoed in to see what was going on.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we are in the middle of brunch, and you are a stranger to us. Please, if you have business with me or my husband, come back during a workday. We’d be happy to accommodate you then.”

The stranger in the entryway had black hair and tanned skin, his eyes deep-set and his nose pronounced. He wore a beige trench coat and carried a cane. Next to Mme Durand’s perfectly curled blonde head, however, he looked positively unkempt. And, despite not having an umbrella that Alexia could see, he was completely dry. She felt her heart stop. No, it couldn’t be.

“I apologize, Madame, but I am really here to see Alexia. We need to discuss her education--ah. She has saved me the trouble of fetching her.” The stranger was looking in her direction now, a smile gracing his face. “Alexia de Rileaux, I presume?”

Alexia shot Mme Durand a panicked glance, and nodded. She made a noise of agreement. (It was probably a squeak, but the strange man only smiled bigger.)

“Good. Madame, if you would please--”

“What do you want with my daughter?” asked Mme Durand, her arms crossed. Alexia squeaked again in surprise. Mme Durand, kind though she was, rarely referred to Alexia as her girl. The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“Are you indeed Mme de Rileaux, then?”

“No, but--”

“Then my business, regrettably, is not with you,” he said, almost gently. He looked at the two women frozen where they stood, and sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Alexia’s name has been put down for a prestigious academy, and all her tuition expenses paid for by a benefactor. I am here to answer any questions she may have, and to attain her response.”

“And who are you?” asked Alexia. “Who’s this benefactor?” Was that the person who had concocted this joke?

The man gave a short bow, more a deep inclination of his head than anything. “I am Eusèbe Da Silva, Deputy Headmaster of Beauxbâtons Academy.” Of magic, Alexia remembered; he had left that out. As if reading her thoughts (perhaps he could, who knew?), his lips twitched in seeming amusement.

“Alexia?” Mme Durand looked at her, lips pursed again. “Is what this man says true?”

“I got a letter--two weeks ago. It--well, hold on, I can go get it--”

“No, that will be quite alright. I do have a brochure here.”

Mme Durand remained unconvinced, but she took the brochure. She glanced through it quickly. “You cannot speak to Alexia alone. But you can come into the living room.”

“Thank you.” M. Da Silva seemed to realize that it was as good an agreement as he was going to get from Mme Durand.

“What is that delicious smell?” asked M. Da Silva. Alexia and Mme Durand shared a look. He had to be lying. “Is that. . . Swiss chard? And--” he sniffed “--powdered cumin with white pepper and hot sauce to match?” Monsieur Da Silva got two baffled looks in reply. He sat down on the Durands’ leather armchair. “I see.”

“What does Beauxbatons want with Alexia?” asked Mme Durand, direct as ever.

“We are offering her a place at our school; her name has been put down since birth.”

“That’s impossible!” said Mme Durand. “She was left on a social worker’s doorstep as a baby.” _She was unwanted,_ went unsaid. _Who could have cared for her future, when nobody wanted to take care of her?_ also went unsaid. Alexia shifted uncomfortably. She wished she had brought her book with her, so she could at least reassure herself with its heft.

M. Da Silva sat forward, templing his hands. “I assure you it is very possible. Her name has been on our list since November of 1979, and her tuition was paid in full three years ago. We have been given access to her bank account for further costs and school supplies, should the need arise. Everything is in order. We only need her acceptance as a formality.”

“Her bank account? She doesn’t have one!”

“Nevertheless, the money is there for her.”

Alexia watched the two adults go at it; every time M. Da Silva said anything, Mme Durand would counter, and then the man would calmly reply, at which point Mme Durand would seize upon a new line of argument. It kept going back to the impossibility of the school and of Alexia’s prepaid education. Her benefactor’s identity, however, remained anonymous. Apparently it was their wish.

Finally, Mme Durand ran out of patience. Then, she asked, “Fine. What are your school’s credentials? This brochure says nothing of test averages, class sizes, or even what courses your school is known for!”

M. Da Silva stilled. “Madame, I think you may have misunderstood something. . . fundamental. Beauxbâtons is not an ordinary school; it is not simply a private school. It is an academy. Of magic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think the other chapters will be this long, but we'll see. Now, for some notes:
> 
> I have no idea how to write a formal letter in French. I did a quick search for the Hogwarts letter in French, and made minor adjustments. It's in French only because I think it doesn't feel quite the same in English. (Also I'm not very confident in translating.)
> 
> Mme is the French abbreviation for Madame, similar to Mrs for a married woman. M. is the abbreviation for Monsieur, like Mr in English.
> 
> [The '90-'91 school year in France ended on 6 July 1991.](http://cache.media.education.gouv.fr/file/85/3/5853.pdf)
> 
> [Orphans in France are usually adopted by blood relatives or, barring that, placed into foster care (as far as I'm aware).](https://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/inserm-00476402/file/inserm-00476402_edited.pdf)
> 
> The 15th Arrondissement is apparently middle class. (Paris is broken up into 20 Arrondissements; they're like neighborhoods and towns rolled into one. I'm not sure how to really describe them.)
> 
> Due to an influx of immigrants, Portuguese last names are becoming increasingly common in certain areas of France. Not sure if this holds true for the 90s, but I thought it was interesting enough to give the Deputy Headmaster a Portuguese last name. Also, Beauxbatons according to Pottermore accepts a minority of Dutch, Spanish, Portuguese, Belgian, and Luxembourgian students. It would only make sense, then, that faculty can also be of other nationalities as well.


	2. Ceci n'est pas grand-chose / This is not a big deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this wasn't as long as the first chapter. It's nearly the end of my first semester in college, so my life's been pretty hectic the past few weeks. I don't think I'll be able to write more until after my exams are over on the 22nd. :(
> 
> And I forgot to mention this earlier, but assume everyone is speaking in French (if you hadn't already!).
> 
> Thank you for reading!

It was quiet in the living room. All Alexia could hear was the pattering of rain against the ground outside and the dim sizzling sound of cooking going on in the kitchen. She chanced a glance over to Mme Durand sitting next to her on the sofa, so still that Alexia wondered if she had forgotten to breathe.

M. Da Silva had said _magic_ as if it were a fact of the world, something banal. He had said _magic_ just as clearly as the Beauxbâtons letterhead proclaimed it an academy of magic. And Alexia had a small feeling, like fleeting glimmers of a fire, that it wasn’t the type of magic one saw on stages, with card tricks and rabbits pulled out of hats.

Evidently, Mme Durand did not share in Alexia's opinion. “A magic school? I didn’t even know they had those! Do you really think I want my daughter to become a magician?”

“Not a magician, no,” said M. Da Silva, and Alexia was surprised to see he had seemingly taken no offence. “Should Alexia accept our offer, she will study to become a witch.”

It was a good thing, Alexia reflected later, that she hadn’t brought the letter to Mme Durand’s attention after all, for Alexia had never seen an adult so angry in her life. She rubbed her ears and winced. Alexia wondered if she could quietly exit the room. Her brunch was still lying on the dining table, after all. It was then that she became aware that the two adults were now staring at her, as if waiting for something. A reply, probably. She wondered what the question had been. “Monsieur, why don’t you simply show us evidence of this magic you believe in?”

M. Da Silva grimaced. “It--well, I suppose just once.” He looked at Alexia then, his face grave. “Is there anyone else to whom you would entrust the secret of magic?”

Her answer came immediately. “My foster-brother and father. They’re in the kitchen--I’ll go get them.” Alexia made to rise, but was stopped by Mme Durand.

“No, dear, it would be better if I went.” She sent M. Da Silva a dark look. Then, from the coffee table, she took a heavy photography book, the sort people own to make themselves look sophisticated, and pressed it into Alexia’s hands. Alexia hugged it to herself; it was too large and heavy for her to hold it otherwise. “Be careful,” whispered Mme Durand, and with a last suspicious look at M. Da Silva, she left the two of them in the room alone.

Did Mme Durand really think Alexia could wield such a book against a fully-grown man? Though Alexia was doubtful that M. Da Silva would succeed should he wish her harm. Bad things tended to happen to kids who’d hurt her, after all. Whether it was really _magic_ , though. . .

“Is there a reason you do not believe in magic?” asked M. Da Silva.

Alexia started. “Oh, I--I don’t know.” She didn’t, not really. She had long since given up hoping for magic in much the same way she had given up on finding out she was the long-lost daughter of some nobleman, like her last name might have suggested. Rileaux was, after all, not a real location in France and never had been, so _de Rileaux_ could not have referred to a parcel of land or a village. Alexia had checked.

“So you have never encountered anything odd, or inexplicable, in your life?” M. Da Silva was leaning forward now, his fingers laced in front of him. His gaze was intent on Alexia.

She looked away. The rug on the floor had very nice geometric patterns in burgundy and grey. It was to the rug that she replied, in a small voice, “No.”

She didn’t know why she had said it.

“Really.” M. Da Silva didn’t sound convinced. “There has never been any event in your life that you could not explain away?”

Alexia tried not to think about an answer to that question. In the silence that followed, however, she realised that the voices from the kitchen had disappeared. She looked around the room, but it was only her and Monsieur Da Silva. Alexia fidgeted with the book she was holding, and caught sight of her reflection in the mirror hanging over the mantel of the fireplace behind the man. Her dark hair look like a mass of spilt ink against the background of her pale face, which sported dark shadows under her eyes. Probably from staying up long past her bedtime the night before, reading her new book until dawn had arrived and her eyelids had refused to remain open. She looked back at M. Da Silva, whose eyes were roving around the room with mild curiosity. “Monsieur?”

“Yes?” The man’s dark eyes gave Alexia their full attention again.

Alexia ran her fingers along the edges of the coffee table book, touching its gilded edges, and said, “Why didn’t you start with trying to show us magic? Why do you want everyone here, before you give us a demonstration? If you can do magic, why can’t you just magic everyone into believing you? Why do you even send letters?”

M. Da Silva sat back in the armchair, his mouth quirked up on one side. “So, you think it wise for me to perform magic on command to strangers I’ve only just met? And if I were to bewitch every Muggle I came across--would that be wise? Would that be fair? What if you were a Muggle, and I made you believe whatever I said? What if I made you believe you were a mouse? Would you like that very much? And, moreover, do you really believe in magic? Because, Mademoiselle de Rileaux, you should know that the human capacity for giving explanations--for rationalising extraordinary events--is vast and inexhaustible; any demonstrations I make will not convince a mind that does not wish to be convinced.” M. Da Silva paused, his eyes looking down on Alexia. “Was there anything else? Oh--yes, and sending letters, Mademoiselle, was just the polite thing to do. It would be rude to have shown up unannounced, after all.”

“Then,” Alexia began slowly, still reeling from the wizard’s reply, “why use magic at all, if you have to hide all the time?”

“Can you command a bird not to fly?” he said in a quiet voice. Then, in a more normal tone, he said, “Assuming, of course, that magic is real?”

“Uh--yes?” Alexia wanted to hide behind her book; she hadn’t meant to be swayed by M. Da Silva’s argument, or to give off the impression of having been swayed. Alexia looked around the room again; she didn’t know how much time had passed, so looking at the clock hanging over the door was pointless, but she began to have the feeling that an oddly long time had already passed, and the Durands were still yet to come back.

“It does seem as if they are taking a long time,” commented the man.

“How did you know I was worried?” asked Alexia.

M. Da Silva raised a thick eyebrow. “I did not.” He frowned. “Is your foster-family usually this quiet?”

Alexia strained her ears for a moment. “No--uh, I don’t think so, I mean. Sometimes?”

“They were cooking earlier, were they not?”

“Yes,” replied Alexia. She clutched her book more tightly, small, shivering tingles starting to creep into her fingertips. It felt as if her world had shrunk a little, perhaps to the size of the living room, and she had only just begun to notice. “Simon and Monsieur Durand were. That’s where Madame went. The kitchen, I mean.”

M. Da Silva nodded slowly. “Good,” he said. He started to rise from the chair. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but the circumstances are somewhat extenuating, I’m afraid. I am on a schedule. Would you mind showing me to the kitchen?”

Alexia shook her head, getting up as well. “Of course not.” Frankly, she was relieved to have something to do.

On their way to the kitchen, Alexia spied her forsaken piece of toast left on the dining table and seized it, eating quickly. M. Da Silva had nothing to say to her behavior save for an appraising look. Alexia debated answering it with a glare of her own, but thought better of it. She almost did want to see magic, now. What were taking the Durands so long?

After she had inhaled the rest of her breakfast, Alexia went around the dining table and opened the door to the kitchen. “The monsieur said he’s on a schedule, so I--”

Alexia stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the kitchen. She felt robbed of all air, in that moment. It was beyond comprehension; she was dimly aware that her hand was still gripping the doorknob, that it was cramping from the tight hold. She released it, pushing the door away from her.

“Yes?” asked M. Da Silva, trying to look around Alexia and into the room.

“They’re gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a quick Google search and to my surprise, Rileaux is mentioned as a village in the book, _Cécile: Gates of Gold_ , an American Girls historical fiction novel, set in France during the reign of the Sun King (Louis XIV). Which, incidentally, I read years ago as a child. So perhaps that is where Alexia's name came from (since I honestly have no idea how I came up with her name now). I couldn't find any trace of an actual village named Rileaux, though, so I think Alexia's statement about her name still stands.
> 
> Though if I'm wrong, I'd like to know that as well!


	3. Un nouveau monde / A whole new world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m going to the school of witches?”
> 
> M. Da Silva gave Alexia an unimpressed look. “Seeing as your guardians are gone, where else would you go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for having such a long time between updates! As you can probably see from my other stories, I struggle with that a lot, and college is not making it any easier. Also, I realized that I've got some pacing issues that I'm not entirely sure how to fix. Anyway, hopefully somebody's still reading this. 
> 
> Please point out any French things I've gotten horribly wrong!

Alexia wandered the house, making sure everything was in its place one last time. The floors and counters were clean, the towels were all hung to dry, the flowers had been watered, and her clothes for the week were all packed in her school backpack. She had strung the house key on a bracelet Mme Durand had given her for her birthday, and it hung from her wrist, a little too snugly perhaps. She’d have to find a better place for it later. For now, though, there were places that Alexia had to go and things she had to do.

“You ready?” asked Felix as Alexia entered the foyer, her backpack slung over one shoulder. The morning sunshine lit his sandy curls from behind; something about his earnest expression made Alexia’ words of assurance stop in her throat. She did a final mental tally in her head instead.

She nodded.

“Alright then.” He glanced past her, as if expecting someone else. “Is--is that it?”

“What?”

“You don’t have any other, uh, luggage?”

Alexia shook her head. “I’m only going to be gone a little while.” She gave a small smile, but from the way he looked at her, it wasn’t a very convincing one.

“Okay then. Let’s go.” Felix stuck his empty hands in his jean pockets and led the way to the Peugeot idling outside.

She squeezed in the back with Felix and Mirela after she threw her backpack in the trunk. Poor Mirela was squished in the middle and made a few good-natured noises of complaint about the fact, but Alexia privately thought that it made the most sense. After all, Mirela was the smallest out of the three of them.

The drive to the Vidraru’s house passed quickly, uneventfully. Alexia was grateful; her patience was already frayed thin with Felix and Mirela’s concerned glances to each other the whole time, neither speaking a word to her. Even if they had asked all the burning questions they had, Alexia highly doubted she could even give them a satisfactory reply at all. It wasn’t as if she knew why her foster-family had suddenly disappeared on her, after all. As the Vidrarus began to move her into their home, Alexia thought back to what had led her here.

***

After M. Da Silva had ascertained that the kitchen was indeed devoid of life outside of the two of them, he and Alexia had embarked on an impromptu tour of the house. M. Da Silva would pull out his magic wand at the doorway to every room, then would mutter something Latin-like while waving it around in a specific motion. Nothing ever happened, which M. Da Silva had explained to Alexia as a sign that the room was empty.

She wasn’t sure what to think about this “magic.”

Once they had gone through the entire house, though, both Alexia and M. Da Silva were forced to admit that the entire Durand family had indeed gone missing. She wondered what he thought of this; did magical people (wizards, he had said), as people who dealt with strange things every day, find a missing family out of the ordinary? She couldn’t tell, because all M. Da Silva had said was, “Well. That’s that, I suppose,” while stroking his chin thoughtfully. It might have made him look wise had said chin sported a beard.

Alexia waited patiently while M. Da Silva finished his thoughts. He managed to make them seem important even without a beard.

“Let’s go then,” he finally said.

“Go where?” asked Alexia.

M. Da Silva paused, halfway to the front door already. “Well, we'll have to go purchase your books and things, won’t we now?”

“I’m going to the school of witches?”

M. Da Silva gave Alexia an unimpressed look. “Seeing as your guardians are gone, where else would you go? Do not worry,” he reassured her, “the money will come from your donor, as I explained earlier, and if you should change your mind if--once--your guardians come back, you will not have lost anything.” He looked at Alexia, then beckoned her over. “Now come! I suppose you’ve never been to Wizarding Paris before, have you?”

“I’ve lived my whole life in Paris,” Alexia protested hotly. The other things M. Da Silva had said had seemed reasonable enough, but this assumption really rubbed her the wrong way.

A slow smile crept over Monsieur Da Silva’s face. “Not this Paris,” he replied.

And they went out the door.

***

After walking down the street for a while, Monsieur Da Silva stopped them in front of a house. It was in terrible condition though: the windows were all boarded up, the flowers and the grass in the front yard had gone wild, parts of the house’s wooden frame seemed to be rotting, and the remnants of a stone path leading to the doorway had been overtaken by weeds. Alexia looked around; there was nobody else nearby, as most of the neighborhood had already fled the summer heat (and the rest of those who could afford to do so would soon). As M. Da Silva walked inside, there fell small flakes of paint in a blue-green so dark they seemed to Alexia like pieces of the depths of the ocean.

“Come along now, Alexia,” echoed M. Da Silva’s voice from within the darkness of the house. “And close the door behind you.”

Alexia took a cautious step into the dark, testing her footing before putting all her weight down. She didn’t trust the floorboards not to break, and the way they creaked didn’t inspire much confidence either. “Why are we in here?” Alexia coughed out between mouthfuls of dust. The air in the house was so choked with the stuff that she could almost imagine _it_ was why there was no light in the place.

“We’re looking for a door,” replied M. Da Silva from somewhere deeper in the room.

“What’s the point of looking for something if we can’t see it?” she wondered aloud.

“Ah, I forgot.”

Alexia jumped; M. Da Silva had reappeared next to her.

“ _Lumos_ ,” said M. Da Silva, and a bright light flared briefly at the tip of--it must’ve been his magic wand. Unfortunately, the flare of light had left spots dancing before her eyes.

“Ow.” She rubbed at them.“Was that magic?”

“Of course,” replied M. Da Silva.

Alexia internally groaned. Her first bit of magic, and she couldn’t even see it properly! However, she couldn’t help but comment, “I think a flashlight might work better.”

“A what?”

“A _flashlight_. You know.” Alexia was greeted with silence, so she decided to elaborate a bit. “It doesn’t sputter out like your magic wand did. Just a steady beam of light.”

“Oh, is it a Muggle invention?” M. Da Silva didn’t sound very impressed. “We won’t have need of that. I could make the light stay, of course, but I’ve already found what we’re looking for, so there’s no need for more light.”

“Why not? I can’t see the door, can I?”

“I’ll lead you there.” Alexia felt a hand on her elbow, gently tugging her away. She stumbled a little. “And as for more light, Alexia, this is an abandoned house after all.”

They got to the doorway (or at least, Alexia assumed so; they had stopped walking once more) and after some muttering and what sounded like tapping from M. Da Silva, the door swung open to reveal the bluest sky she had ever seen. Alexia let her gaze fall downward and saw what looked like a street of buildings not unlike those in older parts of Paris, with some bearing signs on their _façades_ , which were painted in bright pastel colors.

As M. Da Silva tugged her down the street, Alexia saw all sorts of shops she had never heard of before: _Pâtisserie Millefeuille, Anciens Habits, La Grosse Grenouillère,_ and _La Tempête: BALAIS A G.V_. There were stores that made odd noises or had steam shooting out the doors, and even a bookshop with a display of winged scrolls flitting every which way, unable to escape. As they sped on past the bookstore, Alexia spied a blond girl a little older than her dressed in very fine blue robes buying one of the winged scrolls. After that, she realized that there were a large number of people here dressed in odd, almost monkish clothing--though they were all very brightly colored and decorated too. She didn’t know what to make of it. Some of them were even wearing pointed hats, just like a real witch straight out of a children’s story!

“Where are we?” asked Alexia. But M. Da Silva gave no answer, so onward they went until they arrived at a giant boutique called _Chez Christine_ near the end of the street. Alexia’ heart beat faster as her eyes wandered over the large glass windows on either side of the door.

M. Da Silva smiled down at her. “Yes, most children enjoy this most. How would you like to have a magic wand, Alexia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going strictly canon on this. The more JKR posts. . . well, there's a lot of stuff I disagree with. Like _Ollivanders_ being so world-famous that wizards all over the world will go there just for their wands? I don't know; it seems a little arrogant. And I mean, Fleur had her own wand with a Veela hair core, so obviously she didn't go to Ollivanders.
> 
> JKR is of course biased; I just think that there's no way the French will have been going to Ollivanders for hundreds of years (it started somewhere in the BCs?) just to get their wands. Even if Muggle wars don't strictly align with Wizarding ones, and so national identity might be different amongst the global Wizarding population, it just doesn't mesh with how I see the world. Ah well.


	4. Chez Mme Christine / At Madame Christine's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise I am not abandoning this story; I've already spent too many years thinking about it, haha.
> 
> Also, I've changed Alexis's name to Alexia because TuuliTaika pointed out to me that the name Alexis is only used for men in France--oops! I'll try to be more careful about research in the future!

Alexia and M. Da Silva entered the wand boutique. Two long display cases lined either side of the room, with three more in the middle. There was a desk at the far end of the room and a door behind it. No one else was there. Alexia wandered between the cases, looking at the wands inside. They seemed to come in all colors and sizes, and were so intricately carved that the handles of each wand displayed a different motif. Some had vines curling up the sides, some had snakes or winged lions, but no one wand had been decorated exactly the same.

A woman came bustling over from the door at the other end of the shop. “Oh, Monsieur Da Silva! What a pleasure. And this must be a new student?” She was petite, almost of a height with Alexia, though the wrinkles in her heart-shaped face showed her age. She had dark brown hair in a large bun atop her head, a forehead of full bangs, and thinly-rimmed red spectacles that slid down her nose a bit as she inclined her head at Alexia. The smile she gave Alexia reminded her of the _blinchiki_ that Kazimir’s family had once served her for dessert. “I am Madame Christine,” the woman introduced herself. “Are you from a Muggle family, dear?”

Alexia wasn’t sure how she felt about that question just yet, so instead she replied with, “I’m Alexia. Are all these wands yours?”

“Oh, no!” Mme Christine shook her head. “I wouldn’t know what to do with so many wands! A witch needs only one, after all, to cast her spells.” The smile she gave Alexia turned from dessert-like to desert-like. “So how are you finding the Wizarding World, mademoiselle?”

“I’ve only walked down this street so far,” Alexia replied. She wasn’t sure she liked Mme Christine. The woman seemed very observant, and Alexia had always like to be the one observing others. She turned to M. Da Silva, who had been watching the exchange with the barest smile on his long face. “How does one choose a wand? Monsieur?” she added hastily.

M. Da Silva nodded at Mme Christine, who went to the case farthest to their left and lifted the glass. “You’ll have to try them out,” he said softly. “The wand is the most expensive part of your supplies, and the most vital, so don’t worry about the price. Just take the best one.”

Alexia thought it odd that M. Da Silva kept mentioning the price of things, since he had also reassured her repeatedly that all her expenses had been taken care of, but she decided to keep her thoughts to herself. He still hadn’t answered her question though. “How does one _find_ the best one, though? How do I try out a wand? Do I just wave it around?”

“Yes! You do exactly that, my dear,” said Mme Christine, beckoning them over to the case. Alexia shrugged and went along. “Which is your wand hand?” she asked Alexia.

“I'm left-handed,” Alexia replied.

Mme Christine didn’t make any comment; she simply placed the first wand in Alexia’s left hand.

The wand tapered slightly at the end, and was lighter to the touch than she had expected from the dark wood. On the handle, it sported a raised pattern of what looked like scales. Idly, Alexia wondered if, since witches existed, perhaps magical animals did as well? But the wand still felt like just a wooden stick in her hand, if a more polished, refined one. She looked doubtfully between the two adults in front of her--what if she failed to make anything happen, and it was all a giant mistake meant for another Alexia de Rileaux?--and took a small breath, and swept the wand from left to right.

Perhaps she had imagined the small fizzing sound.

“No, that’s not it, is it?” Mme Christine shook her head and plucked the wand from Alexia’ left hand. “Here, try this one.”

Alexia did the same thing again, since neither of the two adults had seemed to want her to do anything else, but again Mme Christine took the wand away. They continued at this for a good half hour, Alexia guessed, watching the wands steadily pile up beside her on the display case. They had long since exhausted all the wands on display, and Mme Christine was now bringing wands in from her back room by the armfuls. M. Da Silva meanwhile had pulled up a plush armchair from somewhere--though Alexia could have sworn that there hadn’t been any chairs in the room when they had entered. More magic?

Not one wand, however, seemed to take to Alexia. She wasn’t entirely sure what to look for. What, did they expect a spectacle of some sort, some fireworks? It wasn’t as if she already knew any magic; she felt a little silly just waving a wooden stick about. Still, she worried that perhaps the two adults had overlooked something, that perhaps they had already passed on her perfect wand because they were looking for something that wouldn’t happen.

“I don’t know what’s going on! Not a single wand has come close to choosing her,” said Mme Christine, running a hand over her head to smooth away all the strands of hair that had begun to fall out of her once-neat bun. “To be frank, monsieur, it would probably be best for the girl to simply buy a wand she finds aesthetically pleasing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Were those all your wands, madame?” Even M. Da Silva sounded a little concerned, though his face remained mostly devoid of emotion.

“Yes,” replied Mme Christine. Then she hesitated. “Well, there is one more . . .”

“But? What is preventing you from allowing this student to try it?”

Mme Christine turned her grey eyes on Alexia as she replied, “It’s a little doubtful, isn’t it, that after all these wands and not a single bit of a reaction, one more wand would work?”

“What are you implying, Madame Desmarais?”

Mme Christine (Desmarais, apparently) finally looked away from Alexia. “Are you sure this one’s not a Squib?”

What was a Squib?

But M. Da Silva seemed to grow angry at those words, as much as someone whose face seemed frozen in one expression could appear to be angry. “No,” he said shortly. Then he let his voice grow soft as he went on, “She is definitely not a Squib. Bring out the last wand, madame, or I might have to ask the Guild of Wandcrafters to look into what you are hiding from us.”

The two adults seemed to be at an impasse, and Alexia fidgeted uncomfortably. They stared each other down, M. Da Silva unfolding himself from the armchair into his full height.

In the end, Mme Christine did allow Alexia to try out the last wand in the shop. As it turned out, the wand had been an unauthorized experiment; however, M. Da Silva only gestured for Alexia to take it without comment. Perhaps this sort of thing wasn’t as grave as the adults had made it seem? The magical world’s rules and traditions were all so twisty and illogical.

As Alexia examined the wand, Mme Christine hovered over her nervously, alternating between wringing her wrists and seeming to reach out to Alexia. The wand was beautiful, though a bit odd compared to the others, painted a blue so pale Alexia had at first thought it to be white. Unlike the other wands, it didn’t taper as much. The handle was carved with a design of trees and leaves, pale as the rest of the wand. As Alexia raised it, she gave a little shiver; her hand felt suddenly cold. But when she passed it across her vision, a shimmering cloud of silver sparkles erupted from the tip.

She gasped.

Mme Christine leaned forward, taking in a breath as she adjusted her glasses, nose poking into the sparkles hanging in the air. M. Da Silva folded his arms across his chest. “Good. That’s over with, then.”

“But--monsieur, that’s an experimental wand! The wood has never before been used in a wand and the core--I couldn’t possibly allow this child to have it! My duty as a wandcrafter--”

“Madame,” Monsieur Da Silva began, uncrossing his arms and walking over to Mme Christine, his tall, dark silhouette towering over her slight figure, “If you will not sell this student the only wand in this boutique that works for her, then I will understand. We will pay a visit to Léocade Gosselin instead--and should I let slip what I know of this experimental wand that so suited her, then, well,” here M. Da Silva shrugged, “it would be unfortunate, I suppose.”

Mme Christine’s eye grew large behind her glasses. “The experimental nature of the wand could result in spells that do not work as intended, or do not work at all! It would be too dangerous, truly, monsieur. I beg you to reconsider. Any wand could serve the mademoiselle well. It does not need to be one that has reacted to her.”

Dangerous? Alexia hastily put the pretty wand down on the pile spread across the display cases. “Monsieur, I don’t think I have need of such a--an odd wand, if it is dangerous--”

M. Da Silva seemed irritated by Alexia’s objection, holding a hand up to stop her, and giving her a look. Alexia wasn’t sure how to interpret it. He turned back to Mme Christine. “This _young lady_ is Alexia _de Rileaux_.”

There was only silence in the room. Alexia watched, curious, as a multitude of emotions ripple across Mme Christine’s face in the span of a minute or so. Briefly, she contemplated walking over just to see what M. Da Silva’s expression was--but thought better of it. The prickly deputy headmaster might not appreciate the scrutiny.

“Very well,” Mme Christine said after a long while, sighing heavily. She glanced over at Alexia, but looked away quickly when she noticed Alexia’ eyes on her. “The experiment--it was a favor, a curiosity--just take it.” She wave dismissively at the wand atop the pile. “I could not charge you for such a thing.”

And that was how Alexia found herself with the oddest wand of the bunch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a longer note here about a) why I invented a Guild of Wandmakers, b) the weird names I've given some adults, and c) how I will make sure the Harry Potter parallels stop with the "special" wand and the important name, but it was deleted and I'm a little too tired to re-write it.
> 
> But rest assured, we will get to Beauxbatons in the next chapter, there will be faster plot development (!!), and the decisions I've made are conscious and are not going to mirror Harry Potter completely. This is not a "Harry Potter but what if it happened in France" type of story. My goal is to expand the canon, sort of. So this is sort of niche-fic.
> 
> As always, please point out anything I've gotten wrong about France/French culture/the language in general!


End file.
